


101 Reasons Why Not

by shingekinoboyfriends



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Inspired by 101 Dalmatians, M/M, also reiner and bertl are dogs lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8978695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekinoboyfriends/pseuds/shingekinoboyfriends
Summary: Based on 101 Dalmatians – Jean is a struggling artist and can't seem to break his creative block. On Christmas Day, he decides to take a walk in the park with his loyal pitbull companion... who decides to take the initiative and introduce Jean to his new muse.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KayLingLing7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayLingLing7/gifts).



> Written for KayLingLing7 on Ao3 (smutindevelopment on Tumblr)! This was one of their prompts, I hope you like it! (Also I love dogs... Sorry if there's a shameless amount of dog-related interactions in this fic... And if it's cheeseball as hell...) :~)

_1204 Fitzsimmons Street, Apartment 6B_ – aka: the #1 most miserable place in NYC. It also happens to be my current address, which I know, is one hell of a coincidence, but fuck my ass if it’s not true.

 

I mean, I’ve spent months trying to explain the bad luck that goes on here. I’ve told myself that it’s got to be because of a bum breaking glass outside my complex; that somewhere nearby lives a colony of black cats; that an invisible raincloud has made its perpetual home over my roof.

 

They’re the only _reasonable_ explanations I can come up with, anyway.

 

It’s 4 am on December 25, Christmas morning. To me, it’s just another day following another sleepless night. With no family in the city, and no friends – except Reiner, my beefy pitbull, though I’m not so sure your dog counts because they kind of have to love you – the holidays damn near don’t exist.

 

It’s like that Sandra Bullock movie where she’s the sad homely girl who works at the train station, and I’m Jean Kirschtein, playing the role of Sandra, only I don’t work at a train station. I paint.

 

And when you haven’t made a good painting in months, well, you start to become the proverbial lead in “While You Were Sleeping.”

 

I guess what I’m trying to say here, is that… well, for a long time, it’s felt like something is missing. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but I can tell there’s some part of me that’s incomplete – a hole inside of me that demands to be filled.

 

And no, that was not supposed to sound the way that it came out. Perv.

 

I’m hunched over the desk, leaning out of the way of the leaky roof that drips into a bucket just behind my chair. On the table is a dusted layer of graphite, pages upon pages of trashed concepts, incomplete. In the corner of the room is a rusted metal waste basket, with a cliché littering of crumpled copy paper surrounding it.

 

A struggling artist is far from an Iverson.

 

Reiner makes a noise from the bed, but I don’t turn around. I think he’s irritated that I’m still awake.

 

“Tough luck, pooch,” I mumble, dragging my pencil across the page, forehead creased.

 

He whines in a low tone, and when I glance over my shoulder, he’s staring up at me from the edge of the bed, his head propped up on his oven mitt paws. In his eyes, I can read his thoughts clearly: _Hurry the fuck up._

 

I narrow my tired eyes, and manage a gruff, snappy reply.

 

“You gon’ wait.”

 

He groans again, rolling over slowly onto his side to take up the majority of the bed, and places one paw over his eye. Drama queen.

 

Sometimes I feel bad though. Despite my own creative struggles, I still work 8 to 10 hours a day; the time I get to spend with him is slim, and I know that lately, I haven’t gotten to walk him as much as I should. He needs to let off some steam, especially so that he doesn’t keep eating my pillows, shoes, blankets, towels, etc. (Reiner likes to eat everything, and subsequently make my daily life a thousand times more difficult.)

 

I eventually stop working at around six. I flick the light switch off, shove my rolly chair into the desk dejectedly, unzip my jeans and let them pool around my ankles as I make for the bed. I slip one foot out, then the other, and have to _reeeeeally_ yank on the blankets to get any out from underneath the beefcake.

 

The movement starts to wake him up, and when he realizes I’m finally in bed, he stretches a little, hoists himself up, and heavily trots over to the other side of the bed where he weasels himself beneath the covers. I can feel him sigh against my legs.

 

I can’t help but smile a little. He might be a lot to handle, but he’s a good dog. Most days.

 

As he starts to snore, and I start to think that maybe this is all there will ever be – just me and my dog, and this shitty apartment and an art block the size of Texas – I start to get that familiar sinking feeling that comes at night. I wonder if I’m the only one who feels it. I wonder if there could be a whole great many people in this world who go to bed feeling like they’re somehow wasting their lives, or choosing the wrong path, or tossing and turning and drowning in quiet anxiety.

 

Slowly, my eyes flutter open. The moon from the window above my head casts a glow on the sheets. Outside, a siren’s echo whirrs.

 

It’s in this moment that I decide, that no matter what, I have to breathe. I need to take a day to clear my head, to shake off the anxiety, to purge these thoughts and come back to my work with a clean slate. I’ve gone months without taking a day off, without a breath.

 

 _Today_ is _technically Christmas,_ I reason, closing my eyes again and pulling the covers up over my shoulders. _Reiner needs a walk anyway._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Reiner walks heavily by my side as I light a cigarette and pull my jacket closer. The cold air stings my eyes, and already I wish I’d brought gloves, a scarf. At least I remembered a hat.

 

We venture down to Central Park, which is a bit of a trek from home, but I figure, if we’re going out, we might as well go out with a bang, and the park is Reiner’s favorite. It’s also my favorite, but I try not to have “favorite” anythings these days, because if I do, I’m always disappointed. For example, try eating baby carrots with every meal for a year.

 

Yeah. I know a thing or two about disappointment.

 

I’m getting better at avoiding it these days though.

 

The park is surprisingly busy today. I mean, it’s usually busy anyway, because it’s one of the tourist hot-spots, but given that it’s somewhere around eleven degrees outside, I don’t know if “hot-spot” is really the term I’d use…

 

Ha. Dad jokes.  (I hate myself.)

 

Reiner seems happy enough though. He doesn’t typically enjoy the cold weather, but he doesn’t seem to mind it today. It’s not snowing, and the sun is glowing brightly beneath the hazy winter clouds overhead. All things considered, it’s not the worst. And, fuck, as shitty as I feel every day, today isn’t the bottom of the barrell.

 

Every day, I do this thing where I gauge how depressed I feel on a scale, with one being pretty okay and ten being the absolute worst. I don’t think I’ve ever ranked myself a ten, or even a nine; I save the worst because I have a feeling I’ll feel worse one day – which is a pretty sad thought, but I have thoughts like these all the time so don’t feel too bad for me.

 

But, I’m also saving that one.

 

I think I’m going to find out how to be truly happy someday. You have to hope, anyway.

 

Today, I’d probably rank myself a four. I’m pretty exhausted, and I can already feel the dread of having to work again tomorrow sinking into my bones, but with the weather and the dog and the smell of pralines in the air, I can take a big lungful and let it out, knowing that things could sure be a whole heck of a lot worse.

 

A couple in a horse-drawn carriage passes us. I look at Reiner and he looks up at me, and I can tell we’re both thinking: _What kind of pretentious snob needs a carriage ride?_

 

But also, I have a feeling that if I were the kind of person who had enough money to throw away on stupid carriage rides, I might take one. Maybe. And I might even like it. But I would never admit that.

 

When we’re far enough down the trail that the crowd starts to dissipate, I sigh, sticking my hands in my pockets and turning my head upward.

 

“It’s a good day for a walk, huh, pooch,” I say quietly, putting out my cigarette on my boot and tossing it in a nearby garbage can. Then, glancing down at him, I do that dog-owner voice that I hate: “You havin’ fun? Huh, boy?” I don’t even mean to do it sometimes. It just comes out. It’s like when I hear parents doing the baby-talk voice in public to their kids. Reiner doesn’t look up at me when I do it, probably teaching me a lesson. I don’t think he wants to encourage me.

 

Classic Reiner. Keeping it real.

 

It’s peaceful here though. I wish I got down here more often than I do. The air feels cleaner, the sun a little brighter…

 

It’s right at this moment that the beefcake starts barking.

 

He slams on his puppy brakes, arches his back, and starts barking – not at anyone in particular, but up at me.

 

My eyes go wide, catching his. “What? What’s wrong?”

 

He stops barking for a moment, looks at 10 o’clock from where we stand and barks once, loudly. Then he looks up at me like he expects me to do something, only I don’t know what.

 

I look once in the direction of his bark, not sure what to expect – but when I see it, I can’t help it. I swallow, hard, pull at my coat collar, clear my throat, and throw on my own brakes.

 

Standing in the middle of the clearing, frisbee in hand, is a guy and his dog. A doberman, tall and lean and darkly colored, stands panting impatiently with his chest pressed to the ground as the guy raises his arm and flings the frisbee. The dog goes running, and against the sunlight that starts to permeate the clouds, he cups a hand over his eyes. I can’t see the details, but his smile…

 

Jesus, Moses, Allah. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it.

 

It’s not just that he’s smiling with his mouth, but with his whole entire body. The sunlight reflects off the edges of his hair like some Italian Renaissance chiaroscuro. His eyes pinch shut, he doubles back as his doberman rolls headfirst over in the snow to catch the fallen frisbee, and even at such a distance, his laugh echoes across the field.

 

I can feel it. Not in my head, but in my chest.

 

Beside me, Reiner whines. I force myself a glance downward, and he blinks back, looking from the two playing a few hundred yards away back to me, then back to them, and back to me.

 

I look back at them for another moment, long enough to see his dog return the frisbee while he bends down to brush the snow from the dog’s fur.

 

 _No_. I shake my head, taking Reiner’s leash back up in my hand. “Come on, boy,” I tell him, setting my shoulders back and continuing down the trail. “Let’s go.”

 

He woofs in reply, and just as I’m about to give him one of those serious “I-mean-fucking-business” looks, my hand holding the leash is yanked sharply, and I am being dragged across the lawn, through the snow and toward the boy.

 

“Reiner!” I shout, heels digging into the grass as I stumble haphazardly through the snow-covered ground. “Stupid– agh! Come on man! This isn’t a game!”

 

He just woofs happily and keeps pulling.

 

I honestly didn’t know he had this kind of power. I mean, when we’re playing, he’s definitely built and has got a mass, but… either he’s incredibly strong, or I’m out-of-shape and underfed to the point that I can’t even control my freaking pitbull.

 

I’m trying to be discreet, but the closer we get and the louder the ruckus, I can see it when the boy looks up at us. Well, I don’t _really_ see it, as I’m more focused on getting the dog under control again, but I can feel it, the way his eyes settle over us, maybe even judging a little, because his dog is so well-behaved it’ll retrieve a frisbee, but I can’t even get mine to walk on the path.

 

I’m shouting: “Come on, please, don’t–!” when I look up to see the boy standing right in front of us, lips parted, eyes wide. His dog hides behind his legs; strange, I’ve never heard of a sheepish doberman. Guess there’s a first for everything.

 

It’s funny though, because it’s only once I’m standing five feet in front of him that Reiner stops running, stops fighting, dragging, flailing… He sits, like he’s a good dog that’s never done a bad thing to embarrass his human in his life. A fraud. He looks straight ahead, around the legs of the boy standing in front of us to where his dog sits, spooked.

 

Standing here, silent for only a moment, I have to fight to get the words out of my throat – not only because I hate confrontation, but I hate confrontation when it comes to men who are impossibly beautiful.

 

(His hair parts perfectly down the middle, but not in a goofy fifth grader kind of way. Freckles on his cheeks, freckles down his neck, on his hands. Flakes of green in his eyes. Be still, my sad, gay heart.)

 

I clear my throat, open my mouth, and attempt to form an apology. _Sorry for scaring your dog. Reiner can be crazy sometimes. You’re incredibly beautiful._

 

But all that comes out is: “Uh.”

 

That’s.

 

It.

 

The extended silence that follows is so awkward, I don’t even notice Reiner bolting, in a circle, wrapping his leash around the boy’s legs, then around mine. I only notice when the leash is ripped from my hand, and I stumble forward with a shout of surprise. The boy does the same, only when his legs buckle and his chest slams hard against mine.

 

My nose jabs into his collar, and I can smell cinnamon.

 

Arms rising, I try to pull away, but find that I am stuck. My stupid dog has wrapped his leash around us so tightly that if I were to try backing up, we’d both topple over.

 

I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I don’t want to look him in the eyes, but… Curiosity gets the better of me.

 

The boy stares at me for a long moment, eyebrows pulling together above his dark brown wide-eyes. He mouth, ajar, finally closes after five excruciatingly long seconds. Then, all of the sudden... his face relaxes. His eyes soften, his elbows loosen, and as one hand lands at his side, the other falls on my shoulder. I watch him as he takes a breath – eyes never moving from mine – and... And.

 

He smiles.

 

It’s like getting the wind knocked out of you.

 

“That whole thing was actually pretty funny to watch,” he says casually, gesturing to the upturned snow, remnants of my preliminary struggle, and now this. “And, you know, I’ve never met anyone quite like this.”

 

“Yeah, well,” I say, running a hand through my hair, but I can’t think of any way to finish the sentence, so I just look back up at him, flush, and laugh. He laughs too, and maybe it’s because of the forced closeness, or maybe because of the way something about him feels so familiar, but… My forehead moves to rest against his chest, my red-hot cheeks hidden from view, my eyelids slipping shut. I can see the moment like a painting. Like if I went home right now, I could do it.

 

God, it’s been awhile since I’ve laughed. Since I’ve smiled, since I’ve felt this good – since I’ve felt inspired.

 

I wonder if I could amend the score I’d given my level of sadness, from earlier. If I could bring it up to a three, or even a two maybe. Because when I finally look up, I realize that this guy – pressed right up against me, looking down at me, smiling with his big brown eyes and freckles and perfect haircut – is blushing, too.

 

From behind him, his dog peeks to give Reiner a look. I glance down and see Reiner’s mouth hanging open, tongue lolling. He looks happy. The dog takes a step toward Reiner, and stretches his paws toward him in the snow.

 

Reiner woofs and shakes his butt. His tail whips me repeatedly in the side.

 

“Ah, my dog,” I start, fiddling with a frayed string on the edge of my jacket. “He really likes yours for some reason.”

 

“Bertholdt,” he clarifies, and I can hear the smile in his voice when all of the sudden, he says: “I’m Marco.”

 

I jump, eyes meeting his without hesitation, and immediately I straighten my shoulders. “I-I’m Jean,” I reply, less-than-confidently but at least I manage something.

 

(Trust me. If you’d seen this guy, you’d be happy if you were able to Boomhauer your way through a conversation.)

 

There are about 101 reasons why I shouldn’t rank this day a one, but all of those excuses fall to the wayside when this guy, Marco, leans back far enough to hold out his hand for a shake. And when I do, when I take his warm, mittened hand, he opens his mouth and goes:

 

“If you can get us out of this, I’ll take you for a coffee.”

 

He’s still holding my hand, and I can feel my heart beating in my ears. I swallow hard, throat dry.

 

And, looking up at him, I grin.

  
“I'm on it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays + Murry Chrimbus :~)


End file.
